Monsoon stampede creative vertigo head mess

I'm working on my second novel. What else is there to do when it's 110°F outside, I don't have a television, and moving day isn't until August? I'm a writing machine. Who cares if it is any good? The goal is to amass words into an irresistible mass of persuasion, otherwise known as a story.

In a coincidental instance of life imitating art, a couple days ago, I wrote a scene of about a small herd of escaped cows. That same evening, I saw on the news that a herd of cows had escaped from a slaughterhouse and were rampaging through a California neighborhood. My cows were not escaping from a slaughterhouse, they were escaping from a movie set in the hills above Malibu. However, any story about cows running amok in a city neighborhood makes a fun story. I watched the online video to see what a herd of forty cows looks like. I originally wrote thirty cows into my herd but I changed the number to forty. If you need a herd of stampeding cows, forty is the minimum, in my opinion.

I run my errands on Mondays before it gets too hot. On my way to the grocery store this week, I stopped to get gas. I always feel my heart rate go up when it's time to get gas. For one thing, my beast of a car takes a lot of gas, compared to my old Ford Focus. For another thing, here in Arizona, we pump our own gas. I haven't had to pump my own gas in over twenty years. Now they have gas pumps that are computerized. They even talk to you. I don't do a lot of driving so every time I have to pump my own gas, I have to relearn how to do it. This time, the pump screen was showing a news program. How long do they expect me to be standing there? I mean, the thing holds a lot of gasoline, but it's not the Queen Mary, for heaven's sake.

There I was pumping my gas, watching the ticker tick higher and higher, sucking money out of my bank account, when I saw a driver in a sporty white car drive away with the gas nozzle still in his gas tank. He was oblivious. I was like, uh, hey? He had his music turned up and didn't hear my plaintive little voice. And being an older white woman, I already know that I am invisible. 

He took off down the street with the nozzle dragging on the pavement behind him. I was concerned about the gas pump. I went over to look at it. Nothing seemed to be leaking. I finished pumping and paying for my gas and locked my car and went inside to see if the guy at the counter knew that someone had driven off with one of his gas nozzles. He looked at me like I was crazy. I thought I might have been invisible to him too, but finally he understood my pantomime. English was not his first language; I'm not sure what was. My first language is always self-conscious self-deprecation. Still, we managed to communicate, even with masks. He came outside and stood there looking around. Then we both laughed and shrugged our shoulders. 

I wonder what that driver thought when he realized that banging sound was him dragging a gas pump nozzle after his car. Maybe he didn't realize it until he pulled up into his driveway. Oopsy. I wonder if he came back to make amends. I guess drivers drive off with nozzles frequently. Gas stations have breakaway gas nozzles because drivers are stupid sometimes. I'm sure it will happen to me someday. 

It's hot here, but hotter in Portland where I moved from two months ago. Instead of my brother listening to my hour-by-hour announcements (now it's 107F!), I'm listening to his. Looks like today topped out at 112°F where he lives. Tomorrow could be worse. Welcome to the hot new world. We broke it, now we will have to wallow in it while we whine about how it wasn't our fault. 

Monsoon is here. That means the summer wind direction in the desert has shifted. In the evenings, wind comes rampaging up from the south. Sometimes it brings thunderstorms and torrential rain. The sprinkle of rain we had last week was just enough to sluice off the back end of my car. I helped it along with a yogurt container of water. No soap, I just wiped the dust off. As I mopped the dead bugs off the front, I said a prayer that the metal awnings covering the carports in this trailer park are all securely battened down. Awnings that come loose and go flying create bad hair days. 

My writing isn't great today. Vertigo is clawing up the inside of my head. I am pretty sure it's because of the vacillating air pressure; the readings are yawing up and down the barometer as storm systems ride across the land. The little ear crystals in my inner ears apparently want to ride along with them. Yee-haw. I feel like I'm galloping on horseback most of the time. Vertigo makes it hard to think. The waves in my head slow me down some—I have to do some acrobatics sometimes to get things to settle. Still, vertigo doesn't stop me. It's been six years, after all. I just keep writing.